First Road Trip
First recognition of the age of earth became visibly apparent on a road trip in the west. They packed the van with more canvas than clothes, tubes of paint, turpentine and cans of baked beans. They bathed in rivers and lakes and the Pacific Ocean, wearing the same clothes for two months, sleeping in the van or camping in the parks.
The pock marked face of the desert, the fossil fields where dinosaur bones had been excavated passed by the van's windows baking in summer's broad sunlight. Their ghosts retraced their giant steps through the landscape on the scale of the standing buttes monumental and flashing before their eyes. The speed of the van was lost in a stretch of smooth desert road so long and straight it went beyond conceivable proportion and scale. The distances travelled, the masses of mountains they passed by and through were difficult to appreciate and the quality of road was automatically taken for granted. Herds of wild animals like indian tribes near extinction trudging over hills and through forests pursued, afraid and interdependent, they too had a language and society, an ancient gypsy culture, a caste system and similarly treated their members and outcasts. The adoration and protection of a calf walks between the legs of its strongest family members, the shame and dismissal of the old and weak fall behind the pack and are devoured, the crazy bull is left to his own madness in a thicket, the long grass mashed down from his naps into a huge round bed of dust. Their smells lingered in the landscape and spoke of their plight and suffering. Their grunts could be heard traveling on the winds across miles of flat plains as if they were whispering in his ears the secrets of their traditions and the ancient history of their evolution. So coyotes really do howl at the full moon...

Rethink Hope

On a billboard for a medical marijuana dispenser 

above a potted plant

Rethink Hope

it reads, reflects Civilization

its environment altered enough 

to acknowledge it publicly and express regret 

Silence is overrated!

(Obama backing away from the health care bill)

but when we begin by

taking  responsibility in the maintenance of

our environment

we begin to make aesthetic decisions 

that parallel Earth's benign productivity

It is a responsibility analogous to that of the artist.  

A massive movement of Beuysian portent 

bringing attention to the crucial fact that

everyone is here to create

and conscious of their carbon footprint.  

The Good Ol' Days

Schmela said in Dusseldorf

(to Lueg's dismay)

Richter will be a very good painter

Lueg will be one of the best gallerists

My painting professor said 

my palette was more interesting than my painting

He was right 

just like Schmela

cathartic as Schlegel's 

secret sense of sacrifice:

the sense of divine creation 

is first revealed in 

the enthusiasm for annihilation

because patience is the mother of genius

blah, blah, blah

the artist's gaze is turned inward

into an imagined past

This is the time when it all seems a struggle

later, when we've made it

up to the level of slaves

we will look back and realize

these are the good ol' days

Ideology is a Lie

I was a wildlife illustrator

as a toddler, an adolescent social cartoonist

a commissioned portrait artist

in high school, the "cloud painter"

in college, the "bridge painter" 

on Morgan's Island, the "beach painter"

at Todd's Point. Each reputable 

pigeon holed title

a creative killjoy, Cage:

"I have nothing to say

and I am saying it"

Style is violence

what is faith without skepticism

hope without pessimism

engagement without neutrality

masochism without hedonism

self determination without fatalism?

ideology is a lie

it manifests itself

in the failure of art work, 

Adorno, Benjamin, Richter, Jasper Johns, Wittengenstein

The moment we reach meaningfulness

words stop

Landscape Titles

Keep off dunes, no gathering of wood of any kind

It is being revegetated with native plants

firewood for sale $8 a bundle 

The Yelamu people once settled here, their fossil remains are 

sole property of the City of San Francisco

Rich natural resources from land and sea have attracted

people to this area throughout the ages

think of the many men, women, and children

who have come before us and stood in this very special place

Cliff and Surf Area Extremely Dangerous

People swimming and wading have drowned here

People have been swept from the rocks and drowned here

People have fallen to their deaths

Area closed for your safety

Erosion Control Area Please do not enter this landscape

Area Closed Eroding Cliff Stabilization Closed to all visitor access

Do not overturn rocks

Brush sculptures are for the birds

Some bird species that are already using the sculptures include white-crowned sparrows, California Towhees, and Black Phoebes

Its Good

(He's) (She's) (It's) good

for about an hour

good for a half hour

it gets a little old

after awhile I start to hate myself

are these the doldrums?

these are the doldrums

what are the doldrums?

everyday ewey-gooey ennui

What moves Man

Fear or Boredom?

and who's fault is it? 

Yours

You just can't see it

but... but... but

probably playing with a bad hand, yes

low on sleep, too much sleep, bad sleep

the good sleep better than your life awake

much better

talkin' bout hardtimes, hardtimes in New York town

wanderin' round lookin' for a pot to piss in

ain't so bad if the air is fresh

and your not the only one.

food is food is food

it only tastes good if you're hungry

so try to work up an appetite

you see everything and you see nothing

screams the devil's advocate

a child's innocent love and naturally evil herd mentality

San Simeon

Russian Shchukin on first Matisse collection,

"sometimes poisonous, but always filled with

beautiful orchids" - a hothouse perfection.

A toast to Paradise- lost, forgotten, deconstructed

ignored, bored, betrayed ... 

To the stupid masses, cows, sheep, prairie dogs

we are all animals

who's gonna be the dolphin?

The light dims into evening under a still blanket of fog

everything outlined in blue, no shadows

objects floating weightless

horses prance around white painted picket fences

like a carousel, cows meander down 

a wide pale screen of wheat, just cut

the coyote begins to howl

miles and miles away from up here

the moon must be close - feels closer.

toy civilizations can be seen turning on 

their lights and televisions blinking

the beautiful original masterpiece,

the grandiose made quaint.

L.A.

The lights come on as the sun goes down

barely noticed under the urban scrim

May grey, June gloom

Royal tea cafe humdrum rapping with 

a lost Southern black boy desperate to help me,

renouncing his past, his small town accent

pronouncing new words, in the big city at last

still singing them hymns to anyone that will listen

Ain't got no Hollywood dreams, been there, done that.

Shuffling a Hollywood house of cards 

have happy hour with the Rich and Famous

or at least in their living rooms (waiting rooms?)

just take a number, take a map of the stars,

Jack n' the Box bum

playin' air guitar to your Texas 

body and paint blues

Passing up on two tickets with the real Jack

sitting behind Phil Jackson

talkin' trash to the prince of thieves

Don't tell me this town ain't got no heart

The Queens parade their rhinestone crush

on the fast food tarmac

through the golden arches

to the cardboard Burger King crowns

The gutter ball believers in the American Dream

play tin can soccer on the sidewalk

Bilingual  smiles lie behind fully loaded front desks

the Chinese corner store grocer saint 

shines his brass teeth and white knuckles

as the latino alley cats, sitting in their street beach chairs

arrive, their embroidered crowns and designer jeans

Hip Hop sneaker shops and gelato cafes

bubble tea Japanese and the Thai massage

Don't trust the Greek deli 

and who ever heard of going out for Cambodian?

But its been done and the Jacks still limp along

singing broken lines like:

I'm too old for this and Life's full of disappointments

A bird in the hand is better than living hand to mouth, Batman

You can play with plastic

or pray to a tin cup of coins

or to a fireman's rubber boot.

You can be a car thief and fight the traffic

or a drug dealer dodging helicopters

an artist in a toxic downtown dungeon

or in a Beverly Hills bubble

or in a mask on the Sunset Strip

with a spray paint can and cardboard cutouts

everyone is a cartoon version of their own secret truth 

enjoying the white noise and room temperature

Gypsy Eyes

gypsy eyes watching intently, listening

ears perked high above your periscopic neck

like radar shells tracking

fully extended

nostrils flaring, breathing still

breathing softly

mezmerized

brain synapses firing through memories 

and more memorization

what is the sound of my page turning to you?

do you see my aura like heat waves around me?

can you sense my relaxation?

There is little land between us, we share

so much we have shared

but so much time we've been apart

the seconds pass, to me they tick

to you they don't exist

there is only now 

and now it is me

you are mine

you are young

maybe confused

or just curious

not quite scared

but always ready to dash off 

with your walking stick legs

so graceful, demure, cautious

innocent.

My Way

Hiding in a van, sleeping on an air mattress

million dollar views at the turn of a key

plein aire painting and poetry, a studio on wheels!

A street cleaning calendar and an otherwise unalarming daily routine

coin shower, coin laundry, feed the meter

Dollar Tree, Trader Joe's, 24-Hour Fitness

2 buck chuck, fig newtons, bowl of cereal and a good tooth brushing

driving on the old highways, 55 mph, ipod, cell phone

and the cooler at my side

The cooler - no ice - the cooler smell, the good 'ol days

finding a shady spot, open up the side doors to a cool breeze

birds singing, I strum some acoustic guitar in my flip flops and dirty jeans

like a rolling stone, rush hour relaxation

For a fresh air fiend or a happy driver/navigator team

life on the road is a picnic at the public library

always be on the look out for a better bathroom and wi-fi

Throw the bums a dime or you will begin to think you're one of them

and you are and you're not

I'm a king and a clown

I'm a spy on a mission

I'm gonna do it all, baby, and I'm gonna do it

my way.

 

Happy Thanksgiving

Under foot petrified wooden stones and thousand year old bones 

rattle  the songs of the ancient Pacific palms of an extinct Rapa Nui forest

fallen from its mighty legend of carved ideals

just as the golden spoils of another pirate stash once spilled cold cash

jingling under these  same shuffling tides before me

or the sound of a stumbling horse hoof below me 

sitting so comfortable in a bouncing buggy on this same ruddy road,

traveling over roots of cypress pine, broken bottles of wine 

bleeding at the hands of another hiding guerrilla gang

collecting its toll of hunted gold, invaluable collectibles or utterly worthless currency

the curse and spit from unmatched expectations, sacrilege or equally heroic accomplishments

all but lost on the ears of the silent mule deer and burrowing mole

the invisible gliding albatross or the indifferent dozens of sea lion and dolphin pod

sunken beneath the breath of the next ravaging winter storm  

now paved over in dumb asphalt, dredged and buried again 

beneath the benign sediments of time.

I catch a glimpse of it behind the glare, just barely

a strange glimmer in the curl of a wave seems to whisper, an exhalation

as the undertow rolls pebbles down a washboard once more into the ocean's mortar and pestle

I hear its distant royal echo reach me from some deep cavern, 

my mind jumps back three thousand miles and a short lifetime ago 

to the jingling change in Papa's deep pockets pacing the living room floor

ball game in the background calledthe play by play

Papa, doubtlessly turning over odds and ends, crunching yesterday's news and numbers, 

if not worry or anxiety he is driven by the steady hum 

of  individual,family and industrial progression

in the name of country, more holy than religion

it is the buzz of another stock tip, the sweeping sounds of revolving doors 

to the great marble lobby of another busy tower of Babel

throwing sparks to the floor beneath the spinning stone as Death himself sharpens the steel sickle.

Happy Thanksgiving! Merry Christmas!  Whatever that means

Whatever it is I feel its weight on my shoulders 

and the volume rising in my ear drums, beating to my heaving heart 

So I dive! and with a cold crash it is cast off like a petty evil spell 

and the truth envelopes me in its mighty silence

I enter the infinitely powerful embrace of  the ocean, my body is yours

weightless in your glutenous mass.

Instantly all thought is absorbed in your living brine solution 

Any east coast clutter washed out, wind blown, all visions of future doubt sundrenched

and rendered blind before your twinkling smile.  

Three thousand untraceable highway miles past and their length per gallon

spills unnoticed into your bottomless cauldron

melted and draining from the back of my neck and swallowed by your unquenchable appetite.

The desert dryness, my tired eyes and gnawing hunger

now fed and replenished by the cup of your  simple liquid salvation.

I have arrived! I have arrived!  

This is what I feel and hear when I come up for air 

and take in your foggy mountain streams, your bird calls and butterflies 

and taste your hearty pealing beach break.  As the distant whale shoots his spout at the horizon

and the slippery sea otters chase tail, I paddle back through the giant jellyfish and gel cap grassy roots of your hearty kelp stew.  I toast this living feast!  

Get Lost

Surprise awaits the ignorant and blind 

with a Capitol I, finds the adventurous, the bold,

strange tales be told in the waterpocket fold, 

the indian red walls and totem poles.

2 pennies in the slot

could be worth your time in gold

because sometimes fate floats on nothing

but a bluebirds wing

or on a surfboard ding or a dashboard gone haywire

maybe you can see it in some ancient graffiti 

or in a fat man's guitar lick in Memphis

or in the tarot cards of some crazy gypsy

whatever it is that gets you up in the morning at the crack of dawn

that pulls on your fly rod and keeps you singing

in an ice cold shower, that keeps you driving

for four more hours,  that's the rainbow trout at the bottom of the river,

that's the flag staff stuck in the snow at the top of the mountain!

Believe the myths and respect your elders 

They've lost as much as they've gained,  but stay true to yourself

and learn from your children, as they learn from you,

a rolling stone gathers no moss and nothing is found

without first getting lost.

Hitting the wall

There was no thud when I hit the wall 

only a heart ache and a dull rush 

like a cold bum chasing down the last drop of gin

watching his eyes close on the last wince of pain

a tossed coin spiralling down the drain just out of reach 

running out of time, slipping and sliding down a bottomless incline

only this time I fell without fear or  

rather like I was rolling around in place on a vertical treadmill

grappling like a fool, looking for lost tools

the squeegee, an ice pick, anything at all

searching for some uncertain insignia or proof of purchase

something that could stand for nostalgia 

but simply losing the fight

finding all is lost in thin air above the flames of a terrific fire

I stand helpless before its destruction, hot on my face

my eyes blurring at the sides,blinking like a tic  against growing cataracts, 

resigned to breathing in its toxic fumes

a glass tips over the edge from a bump on the elbow 

and you try to ignore the groping hands of loved ones, the neighbors knowing stare, 

the ground gives way suddenly to an underground erosion, previously missed, unobserved 

rotten to the core, like the empty cave inside you, stalactites dripping bile, 

a stiff neck and a termite ridden wooden constitution

a crooked spinal column holding up  the splintered shoulders of a malnourished prisoner 

sunken under the weight of sand bags carrying the burden to build another wall. 

The soundless sway of ocean chop is heard far below a great bridge 

extending over rocky cliffs you can't see through the fog

Indeed I have overextended myself under no technical engineering nor supervision

clearly not pacing myself in an unbalanced scathing of any and all

stranded thoughts like rawhide pinned to the back of a wagon stuck in a rut 

I've worn out my  own welcome, a stranger in my own house 

mumbling clumsy and forgotten words, the utterly unintelligible ramblings

of  an institutionalized head case speaking to the painted wall

I had forgotten to whom I was speaking,

attempting to pull up on a sheep skin collared coat feathered with age and grime, 

a neglected guitar case locked shut and a beach barely walked on just sitting outside my window like a movie screen showing just another coming attraction

an otherwise missed opportunity and miscalculated day of  empty promises 

amounting to a small film of dust just a millimeter above the status quo  

dead in my tracks but somehow convinced I was racing,

no longer riding high each and every night through the cold desert of shifting sand 

passing over expanses of land much larger than the eye can see or imagine 

exaggerated hope, delusions of grandeur, slurred under the breath of the sorry drunk 

lost in his mind, only to sober up and recall the embarrassment 

dreading its reality in the bright knowing faces of  loyal friends

Bachelor Number One

Choke the chicken, milk the cow, go ahead,

kick a dead horse,

stand in lines, take a number.

Bachelor Number One: Where do you stand?

What's behind curtain number one?

Are you on the fence?

Going out the In door?

Are you on all fours, on the floor with a toothbrush?

What is it you look for in love?

A convenience store hold up,

A dramatic build up, A drawn out let down?

Afterall, what's a tropical dream vacation to a toucan,in his own jungle?

What's a back door to a married a man?

Another bungled plan, a terrific shame, You're your biggest fan, your worst enemy

In the end it's all the same.

Watch the momentum shift

Watch the momentum shift

Life's dramatic curves

Feel the pressure lift

Let your instincts serve you

Travel like a king

let the train tracks sing, fasten your seatbelt, boy, 

listen to the seatbelt sign ring,

let your spirit fly you down that grand changing sky, 

Open your eyes, youre free to walk in the garden,

run your legs to jelly, 

run your fingers freely over her beautiful belly

dance till youre both wet and smelly

watch your worries wash down the drain

live life day to day, boy, open the door and say Hey!

Good morning Mamma Earth, Good Morning!

Feed Me

feed me some creeper, some crawly

feed me some Creeley, some Crowley

feed me something Whistler, please

Hemingway, something simple, something's missing

feed me something supple, something subtle

please I beg of You, something, someone

feed me just enough to sink my teeth into

I need a dentist, I need a doctor 

My teeth are sore from grinding, my feet hurt from walking

my back is sore from the sun's burning.  Please don't eat me

Please stop eating me, soon there'll be nothing left.

Little Blue House

Water boils under a lid

she's keeping it, she said,

she's having the kid.

words forgotten

written off on holiday

distant music somewhere down a

dirt road at the edge of a cliff

little blue house, silver roof, sparkling waves

What's the matter?

Do you lack inspiration?  Do you lack experience?

The words are all washed out and hung to dry like laundry.  

The music lost in the sand.

What's the matter?  

The  novelty's worn thin?

It's no longer infatuation?

Leave the kids at home,

Take the car for a spin.

What of the experience?

A lace curtain blows in an open window

casts a pretty shadow on the floor

The momentum is building

the chords are changing

Honey, another salesman's at the door.

The words won't be there for you to retrieve

Postcards, true love, wish you were here

What's the matter now?

The sun's in your eyes

Your head hurts, your eyes ache

The postcards, true love, the music

Little blue house, silver roof, sparkling bay

the tide is rising

There's crying in the bedroom,

the baby's awake.

Nothing But Trouble and Desire

Its just another one of those nights with Trouble and Desire

You dont want nothing better 

You know she had that look, you know, like shes practiced

And before you know it, youve done blown it all on the bar

With one flip of her hair, you signed your soul to the devil

He was a mellow man, nice and jaded

He had a t shirt that read yellow and faded

Nothing But Trouble and Desire

She smiled at me I smiled at her 

and stared directly at her cleavage

Bought her a drink, bought two and three

She had a t-shirt, that said, Honk all ya want. this one's not for free

I said what does that mean?

But I damn well knew it meant

NOthing but Trouble and Desire

was his motto, he wore it on a T-shirt 

Nothing But Trouble and Desire

written in tiny letters, the T- shirt spelled

Nothing But Trouble and Desire

He was a jack ass friend of mine, nice and mellow and jaded.

We were out one night when he wore the T-shirt, yellow and faded,

It was a family affair, he'd just broken up with his girlfriend.

And she was there.

Outstanding, I remember hearing him say 

as I excused myself, he said, Why wont she just go away...

She was Nothing But Trouble and Desire

When I got to the bar it was plain to see, that she would come directly to me.

She smiled and gave me a kiss on the cheek, I half smiled, and stared at her cleavage.

I got her a drink since they were free.

She said Lets be honest, I said What do you mean?

Then I listened to her speak a long time about herself and Pete, nothing about me,

I lost my train of thought, finished my drink, trying to find the bar, I was lost completely,

I was losing my balance, my vision, I was getting hot, she was in my face, I was getting sleepy.

She kept pointing at herself, pointing at her cleavage, and this part I remember without fail,

She had on a low cut skin tight spandex T-shirt, it said

Honk all you want, this one's not for sale

while his said Nothing But Trouble and Desire

it was his motto, he wore it on a yellow T-shirt,

Nothing But Trouble and Desire

he had it on, he couldnt help himself,

Nothing But Trouble and Desire

He walked up to the bar, I was on my third drink, she finally stopped talking

He was trying to play it cool, talking to me, looking at her

It was like a shakespearean play and I was the fool

Until she said, and this I remember, Why are you being such an asshole. It wasn't really a question.

He said why are you so cruel?  Is your thoughtlessness that important to you.

I thought it was a hell of a line and I'd have ended it on that, if he was me, Id have gone to the john, and so I did and on the shitter I sat, thinking of that sorry sap friend of mine still out there with that yellow T-shirt.

Nothing But Trouble and Desire

There's No End

There's no bottom to this great rushing in, you've been taken for a ride, 

you feel innocent but you're guilty as sin,

you want your cake and eat it too, you want to cash in,

you want a piece of the pie, but you're just fixin to die.

You check your back pocket to see if you've forgotten, 

your bike's still there but you forgot to lock it,   

you try to mind your own business, but end up missing

the significance of a child's innocence and an old man's advice.

While they're digging holes, you're counting piles, you travel the world with frequent flier miles,  your postcard is another day in their everyday life. 

it's plain to see from the look in their eyes, you've got nothing to fear but plenty to hide, 

just learn when to smile and when to keep your eyes  to the ground, 

to the passage of time, the novel in life.

you're sleepless at night, and so damn tired,

but you won't quit your shit job, you can't get fired.  

You're on top of the bottom line, sittin pretty, feelin fine, 

readin todays paper headlines, feelin wise. you're in this for life, 

there's no destination just another bus station, 

so salute the sky, the Earth, and the ocean and try if you can to enjoy the ride.

Puerto Rico dry well of dreams, wet is a whistling wonder felt tippy toes on the hot crags and razor sharp reefs, barracuda, hammer head hallucinations, splattered sperm and humpback whales, blowing holes in your precious expectations, the fiberglass, the hovering air pack, sunset kites, hidden boards, just out of reach, cockroaches, coconuts and bats and hairlines slicked back, defiant and smiling, hot headed and scratched, stitches, medicated pads, gels, shampoo and sun block, winter pages agitated from firing nuclear turtle doves, pelican nose dives and fantastic floaters, a dolphin pack and the fleeing chickens and the broken cock's crow at sunrise, bloated goats and swollen nipple hills in the fur trapped forest of spooky unknown pain and urgent fear, not panic, something sneaky, a devil in disguise, an outbreak of mosquitos, getting eaten alive.  Puerto Rico, an hour and a half late, a two hour wait, inconceivable traffic jams in the fly bitten plaza of this and that dead end pueblo, a surf shack, air conditioned plaster palaces, spiraling towers of trash.  Waterfalls over sticky black gossip, exclusive weddings and tans, motivating, crowd pleasing, no sweat off of my back, chugging, flipping, wondering who is missing, and the plan of attack.  Maps, fried food and ten ounce liter taps, traps and handshakes, the mini tour and a long drawn out surprise.  The dirty thirty, a full moon eclipse, spatial relations and morning bliss.  

The Score, the resort, the local hang out, the hilltop mall, croaking tree frogs and thick humid perfect room temperatured air, the brain behind the landscaping, a potbellied aging gringo, his gotee and crocodile dundee hat, endless corny jokes and laughs at his own alternative answers to our straight boring questions the three bored and anxious jonesing tourist flab,come to buy some weed on a tuesday night or a monday or sunday, anyway its dead and quiet as a tree linedchurch on the pueblo plaza, families asleep, spiky haired bartenders and fat teenage snot nosed brats, chugging ten ounce beers, Sports Center on, swapping surf stories and tatooes.  The tatooed puerto rican pirate spoke near perfect long island slang, said he'd be right back, he had a car and knew downtown for twenty bucks, for fifteen bucks, service charge, with no other option but to wait until friday night, he repeated himself incessantly and his eyes rolled around in his head like marbles, promising this and that and leaving us with his cell phone as collateral, all in an honest hard days work, trying to make everyone happy, a real nice guy, "I dont even smoke pot!"  We cough up the cash and send it down the hill with the tatooed pirate, clutching the cell phone.  Crocodile Dundee says its his car and his goddamn cell phone, how he hates when he does that, but the spiked haired bartender swears with dark and straight dead on eyes that he will come back, that he must come back for this and that reason , he has no choice and we meet the pirate's older brother, the dumpy slouch cocaine fried couch potato, and he says its actually his car so that he has to come back, and they begin to believe he will come back as we go into the bar and the spikey hair buys a round of beers, time goes by around the bar, throwing back ten ounce Medallas, pronounced Medalias by the Indiana Jones gringo, the other two secret service undercover cop twin look alikes pick it up immediately and its "Throw me the Medalia and I throw you the whip" and the story of cockfights in Rincon passes the time flying, laughs subside and later outside hanging around the fountain, water trickles and patience runs thin and big brother couch potato vows that he can pay us back the cash if his little brother doesn't come back. He's talking to Indiana's spanish gal, and favors the local tongue more than most who all speak some form of american english and it becomes clear that he really doesn't have the cash and that he is doubting as well, he offers to make some calls and asks to use the colateral cell phone to try to find information on the runaway pirate, as he doesnt have his own phone apparently and tensions rise as they all watch intently the positioning of the cell phone, and the spikey haired bartender who appears to be a competetive sprinter, the calls are made to no avail as the couch potato sits between the spanish speaking girlfriend and one of the twin secret agents.  Crocodile Dundee runs out of one liners and steam and packs it in wishing us luck as a final joke to the evening and a full hour and a half later Indiana Jones decides hes had enough and would like to take them up on getting their money back, he says so much as best he can in spanish to the couch potato brother who nearly blows his top and threatens to throw the cell phone into the fountain in a sudden dramatic rage, reflexes jumping to save the cell phone and the spiralling situation, the couch potato brother confesses he is worried for his brother's health which pales in comparison to the tourist's petty desires and that announces officially that they are all in the same boat now that he is sailing, which more than ever seems to be a sinking ship and they tried to imagine how bad it would be if there really had been an accident.  The spanish girlfriend calms Indiana down and calls for "un ratito mas" when the pirate himself pulls up into the circular drive, parks the car and come skipping into the plaza where they all wait by the fountain.  He says he got a flat tire and was driving on a donut spare, he'd gone to two gas stations to find help walking, and having to take a shit, he took a shit in the woods and used his sock to wipe his ass, this all in a pleading tone of guilty confession in hopes of pity and understanding and even rejoice at his arrival, though when he shows the tiny bag of shwag weed Secret agent man number one loses his cool, begins raising his voice over that of the endless ranting pirate's explanation who in turn becomes offended and aggresive himself being held back by big brother and secret agent twin number two holding off his brother as well and saving the evenings conflict from boiling over, strong arming it and accepting the weed, cutting everyone's losses and later explaining his rationale, how it is when you give a rican your money A. youre lucky if he ever comes back, B. Youre even luckier if he comes back with weed of  some kind, and C. You have no options as a tourist in a resort amongst the local ricans who you just dont want to fuck with on vacation.  The weed is smoked in a back stair case behind the mall minimarket, the Pirate refraining from smoking, snorting key hits of coke with big brother, blabbing endlessly of his ideologies and life story, how he was in the army, went to Italy and Bosnia and other Middle east places, not Iraq, and one of them wanted to know what army and didn't realise that it would have to be the US army and tensions relaxed when the buzz came on and all were friends and compatriots, and the pirate showed off his tatooes again on his forearms, the broken prison bars in particular, what they meant seemed to him obviously symbolic, he was street, street wise, International, mad diverse, he spoke four languages, he once smuggled drugs from Holland into Italy on a train nearly getting busted and it was true, you never did want to fuck with the locals and just be happy with what you got which was a lot more than just a bag of shwag weed.